Mistakes
by CreativeKreature
Summary: (Original Story) Behing a human is hard. A funny coming of age story taking place in 2013 of a girl in her early 20s and her struggles with identity, friendship, depression and the many mistakes and hard lessons she learns on the way.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Awfully "Nice" People

_Do I tell him? _

I fight not to stare in disgust at the saliva that has congealed into a thick white paste around his mouth like Elmer's glue. I can't hear a word he's saying as I watch it web and squish in the corners of his mouth while he talks, his lips somehow bone dry; a gross paradox.

I should probably explain how I got here.

I landed my ass in junior college because I was in need of… incubation.

I struggle a lot with depression: super high highs, devastatingly low lows, feeling empty all the time, sometimes wishing I would just die in my sleep so I wouldn't have to think anymore—you know, the usual teenage crisis.

Growing up was comprised of family interventions, days of hormonal spiraling and constantly (not always successfully) keeping my impulsive self destructive urges under control.

_Problem child. _

_When will Rain ever be okay?_

_Clearly_I was little busy figuring out what my normal was, that I never quite figured out what I wanted to _be, _and blundered through my formative years of schooling believing I was useless garbage with no important skills.

My lack of commitment and tendency for trouble led to the decision that I attend junior college so my parents could keep an eye on me but more importantly, to avoid flushing hundreds and thousands of dollars of college tuition down the toilet, just for me to emerge with a degree in communications because I didn't know what the hell I wanted to do.

Which, to be honest was fair.

It's my first semester here. Junior College isn't so different from high school, except now there's also old people in your classes that usually don't know how technology works and they always want to tell you about their kids even though nobody cares.

I'm not great at socializing: I'm anxious, awkward and constantly feel like there's a stop watch counting down the moment when people are no longer interested in me or when I'll run out of things to say. Because for me, approaching someone first and making small talk was just as hard as claiming a public fart: hoping people laugh or just forget you ever existed.

Either way, you're in for a spine twisting cringe.

To avoid this, I usually just befriended whoever smiled at me first.

This strategy was not only lazy, but flawed. It usually got me stuck with the _worst _people _ever. _I personally call them: **Awfully**_Nice_People.

You know: the "different" people that are _super _nice, but also terrible, but they genuinely don't know that they're disgusting human beings?

Like white girls on Youtube that let rats eat out their mouths.

Or guys that think showers are suggestions.

Or, for example, when I was in 4thgrade I had a friend named Cindy

She had a Beluga whale shaped head, stringy strawberry blonde hair that clung in wisps to her scalp like Sméagol from Lord of the Rings, and on top of that she had really bad acne that she would pick at and eat.

Yep. She would pop the pimple and pop it in her mouth while we would all watch, faces screwed up. Booger flicking was one thing, but pimple_eating? _

Gross.

Despite her nasty habits, Cindy was nice, and I felt like I couldn't reject based on her snack preference.

When I was in 5thgrade, I acquired another friend named Molly. She used to spit a lot when she talked because she had braces and rubber bands crammed in her mouth to correct her jacked up teeth. She always smelled of B.O, her hair greasy, slick and unmoving even when she ran, fingernails black crescents, warts dotting her forever clammy hands. But Molly was funny, and she played the games I liked, so I figured we could be buddies as long as she didn't touch me.

I remember the first play date we had at her house. They had 3 dogs, which was fine. I liked dogs, but not as much as these fucking people.

I watched in fascinated horror as her mother knelt and let the dogs thoroughly lick her lips and teeth insisting they were kisses, while all I could think about was the nasty shit dogs did everyday as their tongues tangled together.

Later as we sat at the dinner table, I watched again as her mother loaded the dishwasher. But instead of rinsing the dishes and putting them in the wash, she held the dirty plates out to the dogs and let them lick the plates clean before putting them in the dishwasher.

I vowed never to eat at her house.

Later I gained another friend, Amanda, who was also "quirky" and kind. Her mousey brown hair was always tangled at the crown of head and she always had orange crust dried at the corners of her mouth like she just finished eating an entire bag of Cheetos.

She was also really into opera, which she would demonstrate by screaming directly in your face, breath fowl, and she could hold a note for a _long _ass time.

But we had a lot of the same interests and despite her annoying tendency to blow her Komodo dragon breath in my face while also making my ears bleed, I thought for sure this would be the start of a glorious friendship

But her house was next level disgusting—like, potential health hazard, burn the whole thing down nasty.

They had a blind and deaf dog that was so old it was arguably cruel to let it live as long as it did. The dog would just piss and shit in the house, and _no one _would clean it up! Her family would just let it sit there and become one with the carpet; dark crusty stains.

And that's not even the worst of it.

Each room of her house had its own theme of garbage, the air heavy with the musty but distinct smell of urine. The living room was so cluttered you wouldn't have been able to tell there was furniture under all the chaos if it weren't for her step dad, casually reading the newspaper, sitting where the couch probably was.

The hallways were littered with dirty clothes and shoes, as if everyone would just open their bed room doors and toss their shit out in the hall, like a butler was supposed to come by and get it, but never did because he's probably buried under the river of fossilized, dirty laundry and no one noticed.

The kitchen was cluttered with greasy pans, dirty plates and ironically new and unused dish towels, probably just too lazy to _wash _their own pans, so they just bought more.

Amanda's room was a desecrated place. You couldn't see her floor because it was hidden by creepy porcelain dolls whose eyes were supposed to close when you lay them down, but they didn't, so there was a million glassy eyes peering up at you from underneath fossilized underwear, sticky Barbie dream house toys, used tissue, and wads of human hair, a true Toy Story nightmare or a gross version of _Eye Spy_.

I remember Amanda diving into the abyss of trash where her bed must have been eons ago, sprawled out like a pig in it's pen and me, standing stiffly in the one spot I could see the soiled carpet, fearful a roach might skitter across my shoe. We were talking for a few minutes before she laughed loudly in surprise and reached under her blankets, pulling out a log of dog shit that was so old it had turned white and chalky.

"I thought there might be poop in my bed again!" she chuckled, casually waving the fecal wand around before nonchalantly chucking it to the opposite corner of her room.

Returning a simple smile with these three girls unknowingly signed a contract that allowed them to sink their claws in me and I couldn't shake them for _years, _andbecause of this, I promised myself that from now on, I would make friends I could be proud of: smart, funny and cool, bathes regularly, always smells nice, likes the things I like and is loyal.

And _not _like Elmer's.

I never would have been stuck with him if it weren't for that stupid group project the first week of class—which, by the way, is something that I _hate. _

I don't like being forced to talk to people in settings where I normally wasn't expecting to talk, especially when I can't escape. There's nothing worse than impromptu elevator small talk, or in this case, talking to someone on the first day of class then wishing you hadn't, but it's too late because now there's that awful silent understanding that they're your partner for everything, which undoubtedly leads to awkward _outside _of class encounters like having to walk with them between classes, or having to wave at them if you ever cross paths.

'Why don't you try talking to someone else' you may ask?

And risk going through that whole scenario twice? I think the fuck not.

This is precisely what happened with Elmer's Glue. I haven't been able to shake him all month. And he insists on talking to me even though I stopped politely nodding weeks ago.

I'm pretty sure I have Resting Bitch Face.

And I don't know anything about this computer game he's talking about.

_Maybe if I just go into the girl's bathroom, he'll go away?_

I abruptly excuse myself and retreat down the hall to the restrooms. I end up using the toilet for real and spend a little time making faces at myself in the mirror before deeming enough time has passed for him to get the message. I push open the door and wince.

_God damn it he waited for me. _

"Hey, what are you doing after this?" he asks, his hands uncomfortably shoved into the front of his jean pockets that were clearly too tight for such an action, because it made his knuckles ashy.

"Oh wow I have to go…" I say, fumbling with my head phones and sidestepping him and speed walking away before he can say anything else, my bag banging against the door embarrassingly, the glass rattling from my hasty escape.

I brisk walk to the other side of campus to avoid running into him again and sit on a bench partially in the shade.

I fish around my purse for my sketchbook and begin to draw to pass the time.

Since as far as I can remember, I never really liked being in a class full of other kids. I had a lot of anxiety about suddenly being called on, and I didn't find the topics interesting. School for me was basically being on the verge of an anxiety attack, but also being so bored that I could die.

I would draw during class to pass the time, soothing my racing thoughts.

Sometimes if I don't have paper I draw on myself.

So here a sat on the bench, sketching away, hoping I would come off as a thoughtful artist instead of the loser I felt like inside.

I didn't have any friends after a whole month of being here. Junior college was full of all types of different people—but more importantly, black people.

I grew up in the suburbs, where the only black people I knew were my family. I was the only black kid in my classes, and if there ever was another black person, it was like a competition of "Who wants the be Token Black Kid?" where we fought to be the most stereotypically black because that's what all T.v. and media taught us to be:

If you weren't loud, outspoken, a good dancer, sassy or athletic, you weren't "Black enough". And ironically, the _white _kids were the ones telling _you _you weren't black enough. Willy White Whiterson had the authority to critique what made you _you. _And we followed because they were the majority.

My parents worked hard for their house on top of the hill, and taught my brothers and I not to be "Too Black".

Don't give these white people a reason not to respect you.

Exceed their expectations.

Be the farthest thing from the stereotype you can. Be better than them.

That's how you become successful.

I didn't know how to be—I didn't know what to be.

I was Black but shouldn't act like I was, even though I didn't understand what Black even meant and if it meant anything at all.

Clearly, I didn't know shit about black people. I was intimidated and intrigued.

But I also noticed that not many black people I saw reminded me of…me.

The junior college I attended was on the edge of Inglewood on Crenshaw. Which meant that the black people were from the inner city—a place I was not familiar with.

I quickly noticed that there were differences. They had their own language. Fashion could make or break you. They were trendsetters. Having a big butt was a _good _thing. Verbal harassment was apart of friendship, and they would break out into dance, or rap to a spontaneous beat. They were color: the creators of everything cool.

It was glorious.

It was fascinating.

It was terrifying.

I didn't know how to befriend my own people out of fear that Willy White Whiterson was right: maybe I'm not black enough.

On top of being scared to make new friends, if you haven't noticed, I haven't really had practice initiating contact with other humans. I just smiled; it was always up to them to make the next move.

What kind of questions do you ask?

How many questions is too many questions?

What do I do if there's a lull in conversation?

What if they're boring?

How do I cease contact if they're a weirdo?

My eyes flit around me, taking in groups of friends, people chatting in pairs; friendship and comradely all around me, yet it feels so far away.

There's no recess to help bridge the social gap! No games you can inch towards until you're eventually apart of, no more sitting at tables of 4 facing each other so you had no choice but to eventually become friends with the people around you. No more role call so you knew everyone's name and no one was a stranger.

Clearly I miss being a child.

The draw back of junior college was, there were no dorms or orientations or meet and greets to help bond us together like a 4 year university. Everyone wasn't 17 or 18, excited and desperate to make friends, they were between 17 to 60, attending classes for various reasons and then they_go home _at the end of they day because none of us live here and we all have lives.

If you wanted community, you could pay to join a club or fake sports team.

But in college, clubs are just extra responsibilities in disguise, and I already served my years in the sports field; I have the scars to prove it.

I sigh in frustration, pressing the tip of my pen into the side of my leg.

I'm almost 20! Aren't I too old to not know how to make friends? I feel like that's a basic human skill that we should all pretty much have down by now. 

I feel a little pinch in my chest as my shoulders sag.

Why is being a person so hard?

"Is anyone sitting here?"

I startle and glance up. A pretty girl with fair skin, wide hips, blonde curly hair that flares like a halo around her head is smiling at me. I scoot over a little and tense as she sits directly next to me, our thighs touching.

_Is she gay? This wouldn't have been the first time this has happened. _

_Would it be rude if I scooted over more? I feel like she's rude for invading my personal space! _

I close my sketchbook and try to casually gather my things and find a new spot to dwell until class since my solitude has been compromised.

Two taps on my shoulder from sharp nails.

I take out my earphones, annoyed that she's insisting on communicating despite the fact that I had my music in—the universal sign of "don't talk to me", but practiced polite smile is in place as I turn and raise my eyebrows expectantly.

"Doesn't this place suck?" she grins at me, and I find myself mimicking her, the expression contagious.

"It's the 6thcircle of hell." I joke, worried she might not laugh. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding when she cackles, nudging me with her shoulder like we've been best friends for years.

"Oh wow! We have the same ring!" she grabs my hand, the familiar action disarming me. She holds the back of her hand in my face so I can see the same blue eyeball ring that gazed at me from around her slender ring finger.

I feel my stomach jump at something we have in common and how easy this conversation was.

Just like grade school.

"Wait, when's your birthday?" she asks, her hand still holding my fingers.

"October 24th."

"No way! I'm the 25th!"

"Scorpio!" we shout in unison, making stinging motions with our hands before bursting out in laughter.

I find myself relaxing the more that I talk to this strange girl that seemed to appear out of nowhere. We ended up talking for an hour, not once exchanging names. We had the same birthday and liked the same things. She was confident and full of energy. I felt like the moon basking in her sunrays while time permitted it.

I glance at my phone, vaguely aware that I still had responsibilities.

"I gotta go. I have class." I begin to gather my bag. She holds out her hand expectantly, wiggling her fingers, cherry red nails winking.

"Give me your phone."

I try to act casual. For the first time in forever it seems like someone _normal _who appeared to shower regularly wants to be _my _friend.

She hands my phone back and I read her name:

Shannon.

The light skinned devil that would soon make my life the 7thcircle of Hell.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Niggas Ain't Shit

"What about him?"

I squint into the distance to see who Shannon's talking about.

A perk of coming to junior college, was the seemingly never-ending supply of cute guys.

I came from the suburbs, where yes, we had boys, but they were all White or Asian and made it _perfectly_clear that they were _not _interested in me. Primarily because of my blackness; an apparent "condition" I couldn't get rid of.

In elementary school, I had the biggest crush on a boy named Jake McCloud.

From the day he bit my arm during circle time I just knew that we were destined to be. I gave him a hug on the playground in hopes that he felt the same, but he quickly shoved me away.

"Get off me blacky!" he yelled, gaining the attention of near by playground goers. I stumbled and landed on my butt, my heart breaking on impact. It was the first time I'd ever felt ashamed of myself.

Fast forward to high school, I'm at a small party with classmates. Some one calls out over the chatter for all of us to gather around for a game of "smash or pass". I'm not sure what the exact point of this game is, but basically, all the girls line up like prized cattle, and each guy goes down the line, deeming which heifer he would "smash" or "pass". Whichever girl gets the most "smashes" is basically crowned "Baddest Bitch".

A _true _honor_. _

So there we were, standing in a line. As the game progresses, I get NO smashes. Not one. At first I didn't care. I didn't want any of these fugly guys. But the fact that not ONE PERSON thought I was attractive was alarming.

I felt the cold bloom of shame swell and burst in my chest, hoping no one had noticed.

But of course quiet humiliation was too much to ask for, and Ellie, (a girl who chain-smoked at lunch behind the Burger King across the street) coyly asks:

"How come nobody wants to smash Rain?"

All eyes on me.

"_Daaaammn_! You didn't get _any?_?"

Scattered snickers.

I felt myself shrinking. I couldn't do anything but smile like an idiot while they talked about me like I wasn't even there.

All I could hear is my blood rushing in my ears, but it's not enough to drown out Ellie's, next savage attack. She presses further, tapping a cigarette box on her palm and placing it between her chapped lips.

"But _why _doesn't anybody like Rain?"

There's a pause before the boys start a small trickle of responses that quickly turns into a roaring list.

"Because she's Black."

Murmurs of agreement.

"Yeah, black girls aren't cute."

"Unless you're Beyoncé—but you're not Beyoncé."

"I mean, if it makes you feel any better Rain, if I _had _to fuck any of the black girls that I knew, I guess I'd fuck you."

Others clamor to insult me further under the poorly thinned guise of compliments.

"Yeah, you're the type of black that's acceptable."

"Don't worry Rain, you're pretty for a black girl."

I was officially K.O'd from the onslaught of backhanded compliments, and ever since, I had assumed no one wanted me.

The guys she pointed out looked like they were probably athletes. Every guy here was either a communications or kinesiology major and wanted to be a NFL football player or something.

I shrug. "I think everyone looks pretty good from afar."

Having a pretty friend made talking to guys and getting their attention much easier.

In the past, boys would throw pine cones at me and my group of misfits, jeering and calling us ugly.

_"Who would ever have a crush on Tar Baby?" _

I frown at the memory.

With Shannon, going through the day without someone asking for her number was highly unusual. Guys were always hanging around, flirting, buying her snacks.

And I reaped the benefits of an occasional bag of chips or Arizona ice tea.

"I wanna pinch his butt!" she cackles, clamping her fingers like claws and I burst out laughing, swatting her pervy hands down when they turn to look at us.

_More like at _her.

They slowly begin to approach.

"Here, try this so your lips aren't so dark." She says, grabbing my chin as she lightly smears pink gloss on me, her nails lightly pinching my skin.

She finishes just as the now obvious football players reach our table.

I had to admit, 2 out of the 3 were rather handsome, broad shoulders and muscly arms twitching under the thin athletic material of their shirts. The third looking more like a hype man, with too much fake jewelry and dirty dreads, riddled with dandruff and random string.

Their eyes are on Shannon when they talk. She has the charm and confidence to keep all three of them in rapture. She's witty and makes them laugh, regaling them with tales about growing up in New York city. I quietly watch with a polite smile on my face and wait like I normally do. About 10 minutes into the conversation, they invite her to a party.

"You got any friends you can bring?" one asks as if I'm not sitting _right _next to her.

On cue, Shannon hooks her arm around my neck and pulls me into this social exchange for the first time, as if she magically pulled me out of thin air and I suddenly exist.

"This is my best friend Rain. We go everywhere together." She boasts.

We had only been friends for a few weeks, but I still felt my chest swell with pride at my status.

"Hi." I say lamely as I try not to fidget while they appraise me.

I worry if they can sense my low self esteem.

_Probably._

_Stand up straight. _

_Suck it in. _

_Smile. _

A moment goes by before they seem to decide I'm adequate enough to show my grisly face at their party.

They leave, turning a few times to smile at Shannon before they're gone.

"They were cute. I think one of them was checking you out." She teases, digging her red acrylic nail in my side. I appreciate her lie. It was obvious that they all wanted her.

It made sense to me though. Shannon was pretty cool from what I could tell. She made friends wherever she went and always seemed to have a lot of energy. She was pretty and oozed confidence, which was something I wanted for myself. Everyone aspired to get close to Shannon, but Shannon was only close with me. I felt special being her favorite.

"Come to my house after class. We can get ready together." She bumps her hip against mine, smiling with all her teeth.

"I don't have anything to wear." I say, feeling embarrassed, hoping she wouldn't be able to tell that I didn't have enough of a social life to need anything sexy to wear.

She rolls her eyes and swats my shoulder, "That's why I said to come over. You can borrow something of mine."

I try not to show how excited I am about something as simple as this.

Sharing clothes?

According to all the data I'd gathered from T.V and observing the popular girls in high school, sharing clothes was the _ultimate_sign of female friendship—ranking higher than going to the bathroom together, and calling each other 'twin".

Up until now, I hadn't had any friends to do the cliché girly stuff with. I was used to watching anime, Nerf gun fights, spitting contests, intense games of handball, drawing comics and riding bikes!

Clearly, traditional "girl" activities were lost on me.

I always longed for this kind of friendship, and now it seemed like I finally had it.

Around 6 I arrive at Shannon's.

I sit on her twin bed, studying the quilt that's made out of her baby pictures. A bare bulb struggles to light the room. Tapestries are hung haphazardly on the walls, overlapping. None of her furniture matches, and every surface is cluttered with makeup, lotions, perfumes and discarded clothes. A big floor fan hums in the corner, and the air smells of cinnamon and dove soap.

Up until this point, this is the cleanest girls room I had ever seen.

Shannon digs in her closet, adding to the mess. She presents various tops, skirts and shorts, holding each garment up to me, her eyes narrowed in thought.

I love every minute of it. I happily change into the sequined tank top, shimmying into the ripped jean shorts she approved of. I sit at her small vanity that was probably given to her when she was a child, my knees peeking above the counter as she wrestles my curls into an up do.

We crowd in the mirror and she shows me how to put on makeup, taking turns helping each other glue on false lashes.

I stand, looming at myself in the mirror.

My parents would _never_let me out the house in something like this. I twist around, looking at myself from different angles, criticizing what I saw.

My mother was a modest woman and raised me to dress in ratios. The more exposed my top was, the more coverage the bottom had to have and vice versa.

My legs, arms, _and _chest were out.

For a moment, I'm thrilled by the rebellion; posing for a few selfies with Shannon, then taking a bunch of solo pictures for her.

Although the clothes were sexy, I felt like I looked stupid. Like it was obvious that these clothes weren't mine. Like an insecure person trying to feign confidence through provocative costume.

I feared everyone would see through me.

Shannon picks up some perfume, smelling the bottle and rolling her eyes in ecstasy.

"This perfume is the best. It's called Flower Bomb."

I watch as she sprays a cloud in the air and instructs me to walk through it 3 times before she says that's enough.

It must be the girly way of doing things… even if it's incredibly wasteful.

I'm suddenly struck with the realization that I've never been to a "Black" party before. The only parties I've ever really been to were high school dances, and all everyone really did was jump around or dry hump. And if anyone actually threw a party at their house, no one danced, they all just drank.

I was already concerned about not being "black enough" and if the truth that I didn't know how to keep rhythm were to be revealed, it would revoke my black card for sure.

"Shannon. I don't know how to dance." I confess, already feeling ashamed.

"Girl! It's super easy. I'll teach you how to twerk."

Twerking.

A big part of my generation's culture. A skill that was generally assumed all black girls knew how to do. And because I didn't spend my free time twerking in the mirror or listening to music that would even warrant twerking, I was screwed.

Shannon gives me a crash course in booty bouncing. I try my best to mimic her, but it's pretty hard.

I mean, the stamina and body isolation that goes into it is exhausting! I found myself thinking that stripping should be recognized as an Olympic sport.

After a while of watching me struggle to find a beat, she shrugs and says maybe no one will notice because it'll be dark.

I pray she's right.

An Uber ride later, we pull up to a warehouse. I didn't know a party could be held anywhere else _besides_a house. I can feel the reverb of the bass through the concrete, rattling my heels with each step. An out of shape 'bouncer' who's obviously just a random guy meant to be intimidating, yanks open the steel door. Shannon drags her hand across his chest as she saunters in, seeming completely in her element while I cling to her as if we were walking through a haunted house.

The pungent smell of weed, alcohol and sweat hits us like a wall.

Inside is dark, the air sticky. Half of the party is a chaotic mess of gyrating bodies.

An uncomfortable amount of guys are shirtless, girls whip their hair around and throw it back, sweat blazing trails through made-up faces. Twerk Off's were being recorded in various pockets of the dance floor, thongs peeking above jeans and shorts.

It looked more like public sex than a party.

From a quick assessment, I could tell that the moves I had been practicing would look like a seizure compared to these expert booty shakers.

Shannon turns to yell something I can't hear before releasing me, disappearing into the crowd and I immediately feel lost without her.

_This could be good. I can have a good time._

I begin to nod my head to the beat. Once I feel confident that I know the rhythm of the song I begin to sway.

_That's right. Dancing isn't hard. You're coordinated enough for a simple 2 step. _

Before I can _really _let loose, someone roughly grabs my hips from behind. I stiffen then realize this person is trying to dance with me.

I struggle to calm down and find the beat again, ignoring the fact that they didn't even ask and I didn't know what they looked like.

My novice skills must have been obvious because as quickly as the mounting began, I'm pushed away with a dismissiveness liken to that of pushing away a plate of nasty ass food. Not his taste.

I stumble but quickly right myself, my ego lightly bruised.

_Don't be negative. Maybe he just didn't like the song. _

To my utter humiliation, this happens 5 or 6 more times, and I quickly find out that its not the music, it's _me_.

I get ambushed by the unmistakable semi boner being pressed against me, to which I immediately start bucking around in some semblance of what I _think_is twerking for about 15 seconds before he realizes that I don't know what the hell I'm doing and tosses me back to the sea of bodies as if I offend.

And it's not even like I find dancing to be particularly fun! It felt more like a competition of who could dance the sexiest to snare the attention of men and strike jealousy into the hearts of all the whores; as if you _didn't _spend 3 hours at home getting ready to hopefully be the prettiest girl in the room!

Correction: the prettiest girl in the sketchy warehouse with no windows.

But rejection is rejection nonetheless, and my self esteem has been reduced to a pitiful puddle on the ground.

Awkwardly standing still in a sea of movement, I tell myself I put in my best effort and now it would be okay if I quit. So I default to what I normally do when faced with a crowd:

Find a quiet corner to stand in.

The other half of the party was out back where people smoke, drank and lounged; a much calmer climate than this visceral dance scene. I could see it through the double glass doors like the pearly gates; promising solace and a comfortable spot to disappear.

I brave the crowd, slipping past wet smelly bodies, apologizing the entire way. A girl flips her hair in my face, strands dragging through my mouth and I try not to think about all the germs I probably just ingested in that millisecond.

By the time I finally managed to drag my way to freedom, my hair was frizzy, skin sweaty and my borrowed clothes were damp and stinking.

Why do girls put in all this effort just to have it ruined in the first half hour?

I find the least sticky plastic folding chair out there and drag across the SOLO cup littered grass it to a corner far from the festivities. I hunker down with my phone, Youtubing Twerking 101 videos and saving them to a playlist; making a mental note to start practicing in the mirror as soon as I got home.

It's embarrassing to be bad at things.

I hear a chair scraping across the gravel and look up to see a guy in a red Hollister polo shirt. An obnoxious Gucci belt hung around his hips, pulling his already sagging pants so low that he might as well have left the house with them around his ankles.

He sits next to me, leaning down to dust off his Jordan's as if they were a prize before settling back in his chair. I decide not to make eye contact and ignore him, trying to appear even _more _interested in my phone.

"Why you so antisocial?" he asks, or at least that's what I assume he said since he hardly enunciated.

I spare him a glance, and realize all his teeth were made of nickel.

"What happened to your teeth?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

"Cavities." He grins. I peer at his mouth again, feeling my face pinch with judgment.

_Clearly someone has no self-restraint. _

"What's your name though." He slurs, flashing his watch at me as he lazily rubs his jaw in a way that I think was intended to be attractive.

"What's yours?" I ask instead.

"My niggas call me Quicksilver." He actually looks proud, leaning forward, giving me a good view of his neck tattoos and a hearty whiff of B.O. as he says, "But you can call me Daddy." Licking his dark, blunt burned lips.

I can practically feel my eyes rolling around my skull from how lame he was, and clear my throat to mask a groan.

Did that actually _work_on _anyone_?

Shannon finds me just then. Her skin is flushed from dancing, her hair a frizzy blonde mane, eyes bright. She expertly reads the situation and grabs my arm, hauling me up.

"Leave her alone nigga! She don't like yo cockroach ass or your fake ass Gucci." She sneers before whisking me away.

"Whatever then bitch!" he yells after us, enunciating for the first time. Shannon and I giggle like schoolgirls as we scurry off, arms linked.

She steers us through the crowd before stopping at a picnic table.

"Here, watch my stuff! I'm gonna dance." She sits me down and sets her purse next to me, placing a chaste peck on my cheek before abandoning me again, taking all her light with her.

I watch Shannon flirt and dance, wondering why she even invited me if she wasn't going to hang out with me. I check out, avoiding conversation and feeling the beat of the music rattle my bones.

_You don't belong here._

"Taking a break?" I startle as a guy sidles up beside me. I quickly note that he doesn't have metal teeth or neck tattoos. He's actually not bad looking, and I think maybe he could be good company.

"I don't know how to dance. And I'm keeping an eye on her." I nod towards Shannon who was signing along to a song, moving her hips with other dancers.

"Oh yeah? Not your scene?" He smiles, a dimple in his cheek.

_Okaaayyy so, he's actually very cute. _

"Is it that obvious?"

"Just a little."

Light laughter is exchanged.

"So what's her name?" he asks, gesturing at Shannon.

I tell him, and answer every question he asks about her after that.

I quickly realize: it's not me he was interested in, it's her. It annoys me, but I smile anyway, and tell him he should just talk to her himself.

He graciously takes my advice, and leaves me alone at my perch. I watch with mild jealousy as they meet; he whispers something in her ear and she smiles, standing on her toes to say something back. I sigh, picking at the peeling green paint on the table.

I'm not alone for long though, because Shannon comes running back, her new man for the night in tow.

"Rain, this is Flex. He's going to take us to another party!" she squeals, squeezing his bicep.

_Flex? What a ridiculous name. Who does he think he is? A Pokemon? She can have him. _

Flex apparently had a friend, and Girls Night Out quickly evolved into a double date type situation.

I follow Flex and Shannon from the warehouse party, around the corner to his car. When we arrive, there's a handsome guy waiting. He's tall, I can see he has all his teeth, his pants aren't sagging too low, and he doesn't smell like shit.

That pretty much checks all the boxes.

We make introductions.

"I'm Joel" he says and I'm glad he has a human name.

I try not to pay attention to how much my standards have lowered in such a short amount of time.

I put on my best smile and tell him my name; his eyes bounce off me like I'm nothing.

We climb into the black sedan, Flex and Shannon in the front Joel and I in the back.

Shannon and Flex are signing along to songs, chatting and laughing. Their flirty and playful vibe a stark contrast from the tense and awkward atmosphere that ruled the back seat.

_Be positive._

I gather my resolve and turn to Joel to make some small talk, but the entire time he seems completely uninterested in everything I had to say.

After 3 honest attempts, I decide: cute or not, this guy is boring and really freaking rude, and I'm prepared to let the conversation die.

"Hey. I'm sorry." Joel says from beside me. I brighten. Maybe he was just having a bad night? It's decent of him to recognize he was being a dick and to apologize.

Before I can even open my mouth to accept his apology he finishes with, "I just don't like dark skinned girls."

His words wash over me like the fucking Ice Bucket Challenge. I was used to guys not liking me, but I thought it was because I was black. By this knowledge, I had assumed that black guys might feel differently.

But hearing this nigga, who was CLEARLY darker than me say he didn't like me _because _of my skin color rocked my foundation.

No one had ever said that to me before and in that moment I felt like crying.

Instead, I snapped my mouth shut and floundered for something to say.

Do I defend myself?

Is this racism?

Can black people be racist to _other _black people?

None of this matters because Joel the Jerk was already gazing out the window as if I wasn't even there.

I mumble a barely audible "oh." scooting closer to the window and resting my chin on my fist; the streetlights passing outside blurred by my unshed tears.

Nigga's ain't shit.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Chicken

I sit in the library combing through textbooks. Although I may not enjoy school, I still put in necessary effort—plus no body was _ever _in the library, so it was a good place to recluse.

It's just me and all my things: too many different colors of pens and highlighters, a personal planner that I had defaced with drawings, a waxy textbook and a Chick fil-a bag spread out, defending my space.

I'm scribbling a goofy face in the inside cover— I always draw something funny on things I don't like—or in discrete places. So when I come across it again, I'm tickled by the randomness.

The door opens and bangs shut, a cute guy lumbers in. He's texting, his brow scrunched in concentration, sucking on his full bottom lip. He absently pulls out a chair a few seats down and drops his bag before settling. I admire how pristine and neat his hands are.

_He must get his nails done occasionally—no shame in that. _

_But judging from the basketball in his bag, he's no fruit. _

_Fresh haircut, Nike hoodie, broad shoulders, I bet he has a nice body. _

_His earrings are a little too big, but I guess that's okay. _

_Ugh his lips are so **pink!**I'm jealous! _

I jolt when I accidentally make eye contact with him. He bares his teeth, presenting 1,000watt smile while I quickly look down, flipping to a random page in my textbook, my heart crashing around in my chest like a bouncy ball in a box.

_Crap! Did he notice me staring at him?_

I anxiously chew on the inside of my cheek, my scalp hot with embarrassment.

_Wipe the drool off the desk you creep. _

I read the same sentence over and over, refusing to look up or move an inch as I hear him roll his chair closer through my earphones.

I cross my ankles and try not to squirm.

_Ok, ok. One, two, three, look!_

I peer at him through my lashes. He's watching me from the corner of his eye, pretending to look at his phone, a flirtatious grin on his face. I avert my gaze, shy; feeling my lips twist into an involuntary smile as I pretend to study.

Through my peripheral I see him move over again and feel jittery with excitement. I slowly raise my eyes to meet his. He rests his head on his arms, grinning up at me, lashes long, demeanor coy. I return the smile and shove my hands into my lap so he can't see me anxiously twist my fingers.

_He's much cuter up close. _

_And he smells nice. _

_I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty._

I suddenly become painfully aware of my appearance.

_Oh fuck. What does my face look like?_

Every time he looks away, I swipe for eye boogers and pretend to hide a shy smile behind my culprit hands when he glances back.

I'm clean.

_Do I have lip-gloss on?_

A quick swipe of my tongue informs me that I'm not. 

_How does my hair look?_

I tilt my head thoughtfully and "absently" fluff my ponytail that was smashed in my hood.

_Oh no what am I wearing?_

Mom jeans, hoodie with no shirt on underneath, socks and sandals.

Nice.

It is what it is. I practically hold my breath, waiting to see who will break the silence first.

"Hi." He yields, placing his elbows on the table and lacing his pretty ass hands together, charming smile in place, biceps flexing. He's wearing too much cologne, and I'm consumed by the crisp scent.

"Hi." I mimic like a breathy idiot, thrilled that someone this fine is talking to me.

I fold my hands into the sleeves of my oversized hoodie and wring my fingers underneath the table, cursing myself again for not putting in more effort.

"What are you listening to?" he asks, and I realize, mortified, that I never paused my music or even took out my headphones.

_You big idiot! He probably thinks you're retarded! _

I begin to stammer and freeze when he reaches across the space between us and plucks the bud right out of my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek.

I wonder if it's intentional as I watch, anxious there might be ear wax on it as he plugs into my music.

He laughs, "Ludacris this early in the morning? "

"Uh—yeah it wakes me up." I explain. He nods in understanding then breeches the space again, this time palming my textbook and sliding it to himself. He flips it over to inspect the cover.

"Anatomy. You smart or something?" he smiles, opening the book.

"It's just for—"

"What the hell is this?" he exclaims, looking at the deformed face I had drawn inside the cover. I briefly shut my eyes and curse under my breath.

"Did you draw this?" he asks, pointing at the figure in question.

"Yes." I sigh.

_He probably thinks I'm so weird. _I cringe.

"This is really dope. I love this." he laughs, studying the image again, his eyes bright.

I feel hopeful at his acceptance and let my guard down.

"If you like that I have a whole sketchbook full of them…" I find myself saying, craving his attention and praise.

He says that's 'dope' and switches seats again, this time moving next to me. I clear away my clutter to make room for him and take out my sketch-book. He plugs back into my music and sits much closer than necessary to view my drawings, his proximity and aroma giving me a headache. I offer him a chicken nugget and he accepts, blinding me again with his perfect smile. We interact as if we've known each other for some time and I revel in the attention.

His name is Andre and he's _amazing. _

He's really hot, smart, funny, and has a glorious body based on intel I gathered when I spied on him playing basketball shirtless where I also discovered that he doesn't sweat: he _glistens_.

I brag to Shannon as I fuss with the vending machine, giving it a good kick.

"Does he have a car?"

"Yeah, I think so—"I open my pretzels and she snatches one before I get the chance.

"I'll have to meet him." Shannon grins while she chews, open mouthed and tickles my ribs with her long nails; something that I've come to know as an affectionate gesture.

I shield my pretzels from her greedy fingers and tell her maybe, then we move on to bigger news:

Our birthday.

I was born on the 24th, she on the 25th

The plan was to go out clubbing as a joint birthday celebration. Apparently a certain club was hosting Night of the Scorpio, so any girl who was one could get in for free.

I wasn't big on partying, I was more of a wall flower and discovered from our numerous outings that I preferred to people watch and snicker about them while sharing a blunt with other strangers that were the same speed.

Shannon liked to get ratchet and craved high energy, the total opposite of me, but it was part of the fun. She was loud and expressive where I was shy and observant. She dragged me out of my comfort zone and always told people I was 'Suburban Sweet' and not to tease me, even though she teased me all the time. She opened up a whole new social life of parties, popularity and attention that I had never experienced and in turn, I was the sober friend that would get us home at the end of the night.

I admired her social skills and hoped that it would rub off on me.

"We can go to my mom's house and have a sleepover weekend! She's really chill." Shannon tells me as we walk arms linked to our next classes.

"Okay. I'll ask my mom." I hope she says yes. My mom hasn't exactly been thrilled that I've been running around every weekend lately.

"She'll say yes. And if she doesn't I'll sweet talk her." She reassures as we begin to part ways we cling to each other as if an invisible force is pulling us apart.

"Goodbye my love! My class is over yonder" she wails in an English accent

"My heart steads fast as I await your texts!" I mimic as our hooked finger tips finally release.

"Till then!" we shout out each other, laughing.

Andre and I were talking.

We were sitting together in a corner of the library working on assignments knee to knee, sharing glances and playing footsie. I try not to smile when his hand inches closer to mine, fingers lightly grazing the back of my hand. Butterflies demand freedom from my chest.

"How's it going?" he asks, eyes piercing as he traces circles on my skin, his touch feather light.

I clear my throat to make sure my voice doesn't crack, "Trying to memorize the order of cell division."

"I can help you with that. I _am _in the nursing program after all." He rolls his chair to my side, parking right next to me. His arm draped over the back of my seat as he looks over the pages.

_He's so close. _

All I can smell is his cologne.

"It's super easy, let me show you." Fingers draw my chin as his lips lightly meet mine, pretty ass hand sweeping down to lightly squeeze my neck.

It's a surprise kiss. It's a nice kiss. It's a sexy kiss. I try not to giggle like an idiot.

_I can't believe he likes me. _

I tell Shannon everything.

It's about 2 weeks into talking. Andre is spontaneous, sweeping me off to secluded corners where he overwhelms me with hungry kisses, biting and suckling, hands griping waist, thumbs pressing into my stomach, teasing skin under the hem of shirts. And as quickly as it begins, it's over: we rejoin civilization and he carries on, casual while I stumble along delirious, the smell of his cologne lingering on me.

It's exciting to finally be wanted and desired.

He plays with my hair, he indulges my hypothetical post apocalyptic questions and he calls me "Sugar Foot"—which is weird but I like it.

Today Andre and I sit parked in his 2003 Chevy Impala, listening to slow jams in the parking structure.

Crumpled take out bags litter the floor. 3 different scented car fresheners hang from his rearview mirror, giving the car an indiscernible smell.

I sit stiffly in the passenger's seat, my hands wedged between my knees to keep from fidgeting. I was painfully aware of the fact that the lot was a silent graveyard of cars. Andre's windows are tinted a dark, almost purple color, the blue light of his radio making it feel like it was late when in reality it was only 1 in the afternoon.

He has his eyes closed, nodding along to Kid Cudi.

I feel my gut cramp with either excitement or anxiety. We were supposed to go to Wing Stop for lunch, but we've been sitting here quietly for about 5 minutes, which was beginning to feel weird.

_I wonder what he's thinking about._

_Maybe he's going to break up with me? _

_But we're not even together, dummy. _

I let my gaze wander to the ceiling, not knowing where to look.

_We've never been alone like this. _

_I hope my stomach doesn't growl really loud. _

A pair of warm lips caresses the exposed length of my neck, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Andre is leaning across the divider of the small space. I feel caged between his body and the small confines of the car. He kisses feverishly along my throat and jaw, his tongue snaking into my ear, too wet. I jerk at the sensation and he groans, mistaking my jolt of discomfort as one of pleasure. He palms the side of my face to pull me closer to him: too much tongue licking the inside of my mouth. My back is pressed against the widow as he roughly massages my breast, cupping me between the legs, rubbing too hard.

I squeak and close my thighs, hands pushing against muscular shoulders, too strong for me.

He's overwhelming and urgent, moving too fast, too eager.

I squirm away, gasping for air, quickly wiping my saliva clogged ear against my shoulder and the grimace off my face.

"Get in the back." He growls, eyelids heavy with lust, fingers kneading, uncomfortably pushing my panties inside me through my leggings even though I grab his wrist attempting to halt his rough advances.

My heart is pounding in my throat as I lean away, turned off by his aggression.

"This is a little fast…" I push but he is unmoving, nuzzling my throat, nipping skin, hands wandering, trying to convince me.

"Come on…don't you want me?" He grabs my hand and presses it against the tent in his sweats, "Don't waste it." he whines in my ear, bucking against my limp fingers.

_'_Waste' it? _He acts like boners are rare. _

I don't want to get in the back, but if I say no and he feels rejected, it'll make things weird.

_Or violent. _

Don't think like that.

An idea comes to me.

"I'm on my period." I lie, pushing away again. Andre's smile loses its enthusiasm by a degree and for a moment I feel like I've won the upper hand.

"That's okay, we can do other things." He kisses me again, cupping my head, fingers in my hair. I relax into him, rewarding good behavior—until he abruptly pulls away, guiding my head down towards his crotch and thrusting his hips up, jabbing me in the cheek: like he thought if he were go get his dick to touch my face, I'd have no choicebut to blow him.

"Hey!" I veer back, slapping his chest.

"Are you a virgin?" It sounds more like an accusation.

"No!" I stammer, "I just—don't want—_that" _I gesture at his crotch, "right now."

_Smooth. _

"I take things slow." I amend, biting my lips anxiously as he moves back to his side and sighs loudly; agitated. I twist my hands, my mind racing.

_Is he mad at me? _

_All because I didn't want to suck his dick while on my fake period like a hooker in the school parking structure at 1 in the afternoon? _

_Get mad!_

"It's fine." He says, lips pressed in a line.

I blow out the breath I had inhaled to argue. He may not be happy about it but at least he understands.

There's a moment of silence as we settle in our respective seats.

"Damn. You did me dirty with these blue balls though. How are you gonna look at me like that and _not_expect me to try something?" he teases, starting the car while I blush and laugh, thrilled at the idea of Andre finding me attractive, all past transgressions forgiven. 

We drive on to Wing Stop, windows rolled down, music bumping. Andre vapes while he quizzes me, asking if I heard of certain songs and laughing heartily at my hip hop ignorance.

We eat, flirting and playing footsie under the table: our thing. I'm happy that everything seemed to be the same despite the misunderstanding in the parking lot.

_"Maybe this could be something." _I think as I sip my lemonade, watching him as he scrolls through his phone to show me a funny video on Instagram.

The next day, I decided it'd be fun to introduce Shannon to Andre. She'd been hinting at it and I was feeling more confident in him after that stint in the parking lot.

I arranged for the 3 of us to hang out after school. Together we crossed the street to Chicken Maison. We eat and they're getting along. Shannon seems to approve, and Andre is behaving perfectly. I'm pleased with myself for knowing such awesome people.

After we eat and Andre pays the bill (which earns him 30 extra Quality Guy points) we get up and walk over to an ice cream shop down the block.

Conversation is flowing, there's smiles and laughter all around. After a while I announce that I need to use the bathroom. All this walking got the bowels working.

Shannon tells me that there's a bathroom at the Subway next door. I don't want to make this about me so I quickly tell them that they can stay and finish their ice cream and I'll be right back.

"Actually I wanted to smoke." Andre gestures with a grimace at the _No Smoking _sign hanging in the window of the soft serve shop. "I'm gonna go around the corner incognito style."

"I'll go with you." Shannon pipes up, "I could use a hit."

"Sure. Is that cool?" Andre smiles at me as if asking for clearance.

I agree and rush away, trying not to reveal how urgent this bathroom break really was.

In the bathroom I wait as a woman changes her screaming child while her children help their grandmother from her wheel chair to the toilet, everyone talking over each other in Spanish, the other stall out of order. I opt to wait in the hall until they all file out, and proceed to take the fastest shit of my life. Exhausted, I freshen up and hurry back, hoping I wasn't gone long enough for them to realize what I had done.

I make my way over to the place Andre said they'd be, vaguely thinking it's weird that I didn't hear any voices.

_Did they leave me? _

I pick up the pace, concerned that they did in fact leave me, but it's much worse.

I veer around the corner and immediately double back, my body pressed against the hard popcorn siding of the building, painfully poking my scalp.

Andre and Shannon are locked in a passionate embrace as they kiss roughly against the wall, his hand down her pants.

I'm hot and cold at once.

Shocked at what I saw.

Hurt at the betrayal.

Confused as to how this happened in the amount of time it took me to take a shit!

_Did they see me?_

I hold my breath for a moment, and the uninterrupted smacking of lips and breathy moans confirms that they had not.

Jealousy and anger burns a hole in my stomach.

_I_haven't even gone that far yet!

_But you had the chance to and you didn't. _

_Could that be why? _

_But I didn't mean **never! **Just not right then!_

_I'm classy._

_More like boring._

_Doesn't Shannon know that I like him?_

_ How could she? _

_"Sorry. I don't like dark skinned girls" _

The memory scalds me, and I feel like someone is sitting on my chest, my eyes watering from the pressure.

_Could that be it?_

_Did he prefer her over me? _

By the way he was squeezing her butt it sure seemed like it_._

I wring my hands, suddenly too hot on this autumn afternoon.

_What do I do? _

_Do I run out in outrage?_

_He's not my boyfriend._

_But she knew._

_Can I be mad even if he wasn't exclusively mine?_

_Who am I to stand in the way of such obvious chemistry?_

_Fuck all that! What about Girl Code?! _

My pulse is loud in my ears. I close my eyes and breathe deeply through my nose, willing the anxiety away.

I wipe lingering tears and pull out my phone, checking myself in the reflection for any signs of distress. I chew the inside of my cheek as I scroll to text messages and select Shannon's name. I stare at the empty message box, my fingers hovering above the screen. I deliberate before sending a text:

-Hey. Line in bathroom was long. Are u guys still at spot?

I lean into the wall, ignoring the sharp little lumps that press into my skin as I hear her phone ding.

A pause.

"Oh shit."

"Is she coming back?"

"Yeah."

I listen as they scuffle about.

"How's my hair?"

"Gorgeous."

Shannon's exhilarated giggle grates on my ears.

My temples throb from clenching my jaw.

I wait another 30 seconds, practicing my smile while they resume small talk before stepping around the corner.

"Hey! You got here quick." Shannon greets me, her false innocence a kick to the gut. My eyes shift to Andre who nonchalantly puffs away on his vape, lips glossy with treachery. He grins at me but I don't return it, instead saying that I should get going to catch the bus home.

"I could walk you there." He offers, extending the same hand that was digging down Shannon's pants less than a minute ago. I cut my eyes at Andre, the image of his tongue jammed down her throat flashing repeatedly in my mind like the lyrics to a bad song, struggling not to curl my lip in disgust.

"That's alright." I coolly decline. His smile falters and he exchanges a questioning glance with Shannon who picks up on my mood.

"Are you okay?" she probes, her eyes cautious.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask lightly, my eyes sharp, challenging her.

We engage in what seems like a staring contest. I can tell she's trying to read me and I struggle to keep my face blank.

_Lie to me. I know you will. _

The tension in the air is palpable. I don't even think I breathed.

She speaks again, severing it, "Are we still on for Night of the Scorpio?" she asks warily, the recoil of her deception wounding me again.

I hold her gaze, deliberating on the decision I had to make.

One: confront her and risk ending this friendship over a boy that wasn't even mine. Or Two: let him go and maintain what we have.

I make my choice.

I smile through the sour taste in my mouth as I struggle to swallow Option Two.

"Yeah. Can't wait."


End file.
